With the waves of ripened grain ;
Far and near their gold is gleaming
O'er the sunny slope and plain.
Lord, we pray Thee, send forth reapers !
Hear us, while to Thee we cry ;
Send them now the sheaves to gather,
Ere the harvest-time pass by.
2 Send them forth with morn's first beaming,
Send them in the noontide's glare ;
When the sun's last rays are gleaming.
Bid them gather everywhere.
3 Hasten now, the grain is bending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold ;
Homeward then at evening wending,
Thou shalt come with joy untold.